


A Show of Strength

by Thistlerose



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy is badly injured on an away mission. Who bears responsibility is not at all clear-cut, leading to miscommunication and internalized guilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Show of Strength

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Givemefever, for thepurpledove project. Also inspired by [this](http://buckleup-meme.livejournal.com/5309.html?thread=1133245#t1133245) prompt (banner NSFW). Many, many thanks to Mijan for beta reading.

McCoy knows he’s hurt. Without his medical tricorder, he can tell he’s broken at least two ribs and done serious damage to his left kidney, probably his spleen as well. He focuses on keeping his breaths slow and even, though each one is more painful than the last, and on not meeting anyone’s eyes.

It’s a struggle. No one looks at him. The Sef representatives, seated across from him, stare through him like he’s invisible. Furtive glances to his left and right inform him that Spock and Lieutenant Sanyal are looking straight ahead at their Sef counterparts, and Jim--

He can’t look at Jim. One look, and he’ll open his mouth again and fuck the whole thing up for good. He can’t take that chance. Lives are at stake, damn it.

He concentrates on breathing, on keeping his feet still, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. The bodies around him begin to fade; their voices become a soft, distant rumble, their words indistinguishable. It’s as if he’s slipped all alone into a parallel universe, or become a ghost. But no, he can’t be a ghost. With his broken bones and torn insides, he feels all too solid.

 _Jim, help me._

Somehow, he holds himself together for the remainder of the negotiation process. He doesn’t cry out or fall from his chair. He even manages to stand, albeit shakily, when the whole damn thing is finally finished. Then it’s time to go, and oh God, he’s never welcomed dematerialization so much in his life. It’s actually a relief, feeling his body broken down into a stream of subatomic particles.

It’s over all too quickly. Within seconds, it seems, he’s slammed back into his injured body, and that’s as much as he can take. He looks at Jim, looks him right him the face and absorbs his look of horror as his knees begin to buckle.

Jim is fast. He catches him before he hits the floor, but the impact of their bodies knocks a cough from McCoy’s lips. A cough that leaves flecks of blood on Jim’s gold shirt.

“Bones.” Jim’s face is stark white. His hand clasps McCoy’s shoulder. “Bones, it’s okay.” Jerking his head up, he yells, “Scotty! Call Medical!”

McCoy hears the reply as if from a great distance: “Already on their way, Captain.”

“Bones.” Jim’s fingers are in his hair now, combing it back from his forehead, tucking the strands gently behind his ear. “It’s gonna be okay. Just hold on.”

He’s aware that Spock and Sanyal have taken positions by his feet and head and are trying to ease him into a supine position. He’s aware … but he doesn’t care. Holding Jim’s gaze, he wheezes, “S ‘okay. S’ not your fault.”

He can tell, just by looking at those blue eyes, that Jim doesn’t believe it. As the world darkens, McCoy isn’t completely sure he believes it either.

* * * *

He doesn’t want to wake up. Can’t face the world, not yet. But the anesthesia is wearing off. He’s becoming aware of light beyond his lowered eyelids, and the soft hum of medical equipment surrounding his bed, monitoring his vitals. Cool fingers touch his cheek, then his wrist.

“Jim--?” The word rasps painfully in his dry mouth.

“No, it’s me,” says Chapel, pressing gently against his wrist. “The captain was just here, though. You missed him by only a few minutes. You should’ve joined the party sooner, Doctor.”

Her tone is teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of concern. He cracks his eyelids and sees her frown through the blur of his lashes. After swallowing with some difficulty, he tries again. “Did Jim--?”

“Shh.” She lets go of his wrist and disappears momentarily from his line of sight. When she returns she has a cup of water and a straw, which she inserts carefully between his lips. “Slow sips.”

“I know; m’ a doctor, damn it,” he slurs around the straw.

“Uh-huh,” she says in an unimpressed tone.

McCoy has enough energy for a glare. But the water is cool and it feels good against his throat, so he’s grateful.

After a few small sips, Chapel takes the straw away. “How do you feel?”

“Oh, dandy,” he drawls. “Just peachy.” In fact, he feels sluggish, dull-witted, and a little disoriented. Which is to be expected, he knows, but he can’t help his irritation. His last memory is of Jim holding him on the transporter pad; it seems like it happened only a few seconds ago, but he knows it’s been at least two hours, probably more. He doesn’t like the gap in his memory.

“Any pain?” Chapel asks.

McCoy sighs and closes his eyes. “No.”

He doesn’t need for her to tell him he’s on a fuckton of painkillers and that he’ll be in a world of hurt when they start to wear off. He doesn’t need for her to say anything except when the hell he can get out of here. He knows he won’t be back on his feet for at least a few days, but if he has to lie around uselessly, he prefers to do it in his own quarters.

“Good,” says Chapel. “Well, you know the drill. Geoff’s on duty. I’ll let him know you’re awake, and he’ll come take a look at you as soon as he can. Let you know the damage.”

“Lacerations to the spleen and left kidney,” he recites tonelessly, “cracked ribs … probably fourth, ninth, tenth, eleventh … multiple contusions, especially around the shoulders and upper back…”

“For starters,” Chapel says in a somber tone. He feels her fingers brush his wrist again. “Leonard…”

He still can’t open his eyes and look at her. “I got beat up. It happens.”

“The captain told me what happened.”

Despite the drugs, he tenses. Jim wouldn’t have told her everything, would he? Cautiously, he says, “That’ll teach me to open my mouth, huh?”

She sighs at what she probably interprets as his customary self-deprecating humor, and he starts to relax. Then she says, “Do you want me to let the captain know you’re awake?” and he knows Jim didn’t give her the whole story. He wonders if it’ll go into the mission report.

“No,” he says again when he realizes she’s still waiting for his answer. Jim must have fled as soon as McCoy started showing signs of wakefulness. Jim doesn’t want to be around him right now, and McCoy doesn’t blame him one bit.

If only he could’ve kept his fool mouth shut. For once in his life, would it really have killed him? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known; he’d attended Uhura’s briefing and listened while she explained about the Sef’s strict hierarchy of command. He _knew_ inferior officers never addressed their superiors unless called upon to speak. _He knew that._ And _still_ , he almost ruined the entire goddamn mission. Lives were at stake. Hundreds of thousands of lives that might have been lost if the Sef hadn’t signed the damn peace treaty.

And he had the gall to tell Jim it wasn’t _his_ fault?

McCoy knows he isn’t thinking clearly. He just woke up from anesthesia. He isn’t even completely awake yet. But guilt and shame claw in his throat, and he tells himself that when the pain comes back it’ll be no less than he deserves.

* * * *

To his dismay, M’Benga insists on keeping him under observation in sickbay until the start of the next alpha shift.

“Oh, come on,” McCoy protests weakly, “you can monitor me from my own goddamn quarters.”

M’Benga regards him sternly. “Is that what you’d do with a patient who just came out of anesthesia, after undergoing surgery for blunt abdominal trauma? Hand him a spare uniform and send him on his way? Leonard, you need rest. And I know you. I’m not taking the chance that you’ll over-exert yourself and end up right back here. It wouldn’t be good for you, and it wouldn’t be good for me. The captain,” he explains in a softer tone, “would have my head. ‘Take care of him,’ is what he said. That was an order.”

McCoy glares, but there isn’t much he can do. M’Benga is right. Anyway, he’s had similar conversations with Jim. “Fine,” he sighs at length. “Can I at least have my PADD?”

“You can have your PADD,” M’Benga says.

The _Much good may it do you_ goes unspoken, but it still reverberates in McCoy’s skull when he tries focusing on the interface a few minutes later. He struggles to make sense of the letters and numbers, but eventually gives up, dropping the PADD to his side with a disgusted groan and tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling.

He can’t think.

He wants to know what’s happening on Paraesa, the planet they just left. Have the Sef re-opened the hospitals in the capital? Are they granting the lower classes the access they promised? Or do they think Starfleet won’t enforce the treaty? Do they think Starfleet lacks the authority?

The questions beat in his mind while he lies there helpless. After a while, he slips into a sort of half-sleep, in which everything and everyone, from the nurses who come by to check on him to the blanket that covers him, fade into the background. In this twilight state, time moves around him in swirls and eddies, hurrying along, them seeming to double back on itself, so that he’s never sure if it’s been a few minutes or several hours since he last heard a human voice.

He falls asleep at some point and has strange dreams, which he promptly forgets when the cool pressure of a hypospray awakens him. He tries to struggle up from the fog that engulfs him, but a gentle hand pats his shoulder and a soft voice says “Shh,” and within moments he’s asleep again.

* * * *

When he next opens his eyes, Jim is there. McCoy blinks at him for a moment, half-convinced that he’s still dreaming. He concentrates, because once again he’s forgotten everything else that happened in his dream, but he wants to hold onto this: Jim leaning over him, his eyes anxious.

“Bones? Hey, did I wake you?”

“M’ I awake?” The words scrape against his dry throat.

“Uh, yeah. Well, I’m assuming, since I’ve never known you to talk in your sleep.” Jim’s light tone sounds forced.

“Whah time z’ it?” He glances around, but there’s no sign of a nurse or doctor, just Jim. He swallows. “Is it alpha shift, yet?”

“Just about,” Jim says.

That’s good enough. Careful of the IV in his hand, McCoy rolls onto his side and starts to push himself up.

“Hey, hey,” says Jim. “What are you doing?”

“Getting out of here, what does it look like?” McCoy grunts. His back sort of hurts, he’s noticed. The arm bent beneath him trembles. He closes his eyes, grits his teeth, and tells himself that he is not going to fall flat on his face. He isn’t going to ask for help either, even though he has a sick feeling things are going to get trickier once he puts weight on his feet.

Damn. He should have taken care of the IV first. “Jim, grab me a piece of gauze, would ya?”

“What for?” Jim asks warily.

Leonard holds up his hand. “So I can take this damn thing out so I can leave.”

“What are you, me all of a sudden? This is a bad idea, Bones. Hold on. Lemme get someone.”

“I’m a doctor, I know what I’m doing,” he mutters. His back _really_ sort of hurts. “I’m a professional, damn it.”

“Yes, you are,” Jim says. “You’re also an idiot. C’mon, you know I’m going to use this against you. Do you really wanna give me fodder like this?”

“I don’t care,” says McCoy, gingerly putting one leg over the side of the bed. His bangs flop down over his eyes; he tries unsuccessfully to blow them out of the way. “I’m tired of being useless. I should be on duty now, damn it.”

He puts one bare foot on the floor, but now his back doesn’t just really sort of hurt, it definitely, most assuredly hurts like hell, and so does his head. “Fuck,” he groans, groping for something to hold onto. It’s a rolling sort of pain; it moves when he does, flares when he hunches his shoulders, but he can’t un-hunch them because right now he’s fighting to stay upright.

Suddenly Jim is there, just like he was on the transporter pad, ready to catch him. Only this time McCoy is _not_ going to fall. He flinches away from Jim’s hand with a sharp, “Don’t touch me!” and Jim literally jumps back, like he’s been scalded.

“All right,” Jim says tightly, dropping his hand to his side. “I won’t touch you. Just stay there. I’m going to go get someone.” He’s breathing heavily. “Just … don’t move. That’s an order, okay?”

“What would you do?” McCoy grates through his teeth. “Hit me? Or have someone else do it?”

He’s twisted away from Jim now, so he can’t see his expression, but he hears the harsh breath, and his guts freeze. There’s a long, painful silence, broken finally by the scrape of Jim’s boot heel and the rattle of curtain rings as he leaves. McCoy exhales, and as the breath leaves him, so does his strength. His back aching, his dignity in shreds, he sags against the bio-bed.

“Sorry,” he whispers even though he’s alone.

It isn’t long before Nurse Shim and Nurse Mathews come to help him back into bed. Once he’s settled, Shim starts to lecture him while Mathews looks at him sympathetically, and when Shim pauses for breath, McCoy doesn’t quip about being team-tagged, as Jim probably would have, though he does wonder, in a detached sort of way, if he’ll ever get his authority back after this. Mostly, however, he just lies there and takes it: the harangue, the pity, the hypo against his shoulder and the numbness that follows.

He rouses himself a little when the nurses leave and M’Benga comes by to scan him with a medical tricorder and inform him that he and Jim Kirk really are two of a kind.

“Thanks,” McCoy drawls.

“That wasn’t a compliment, Leonard. You’re healing nicely, so I’m going to discharge you, as I said I would. I’m not confining you to quarters, but I want you to take it easy. Rest. Hydrate. Don’t push yourself too hard. You’re going to feel very tender for a while regardless, but if you don’t take care of yourself, you’ll be in a lot of pain.”

“When can I return to active duty?”

“When I say so,” says M’Benga.

“And when will _that_ be?” McCoy growls.

“It’ll be _when I say so._ ”

McCoy squeezes his eyes shut. “Fine. Just let me out of here, so I can go and be useless in my own damn quarters.”

“Leonard.”

He opens his eyes, and the look on M’Benga’s face gives him a jolt. He remembers suddenly that although he’s Chief Medical Officer aboard the _Enterprise_ and a few years older than M’Benga, they were in the same class at Starfleet Academy, suffered through the same dull lectures, spent hours drinking beer and studying for the same exams. For the past two years, they’ve been fighting hard to preserve the lives and health of the same crew. They’re peers. Moreover, M’Benga is a good friend and a good doctor, and Leonard is lucky to have him as both.

“Yeah?” McCoy says, with something approaching chagrin.

There’s a chair by the foot of the bed. M’Benga drags it over so he can sit beside McCoy. Setting his tricorder down, keeping his voice low and steady, he says, “You were badly injured. You need to accept that your body and mind need time to heal. I know you want to go back to work. You think routine will help, and you’re right, it will. But you can’t jump right back into it. Physically and mentally, you need rest. And I know you know I’m right.” His lips curve in a smile void of mockery.

“I know you’re right,” McCoy says, trying and failing to keep the reluctance from his tone.

M’Benga’s smile deepens. “Good. So, I’m going to discharge you. You’ll spend today resting, and tomorrow at 0800 you can report back to me and I’ll decide if I’m ready to clear you for light duty. I’m going to give you tetroxymorphone for the pain. I’ll have Nurse Mathews see you to your quarters. The captain,” he continues, “dropped off a spare off-duty uniform and a pair of boots.”

McCoy glances away. “Thoughtful of him,” he mumbles.

“He was very concerned about you.” M’Benga pauses. “I’ve read the mission report. As Acting CMO, I was also debriefed by Commander Spock. I know what happened on Paraesa. I also know that the captain sat here for hours while you were asleep. He barely left your side.”

McCoy stares blankly at the monitors. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“Leonard,” M’Benga says sternly, “you were assaulted. The fault lies with the men who assaulted you.”

Jim lied in his report. He lied to Starfleet, to protect McCoy’s career. Something he would not have felt the need to do if McCoy hadn’t opened his mouth on Paraesa. Not only did he compromise the mission, he’s compromised Jim. Fuck. It hurts to swallow. It hurts to _breathe._

M’Benga says, “If you like, I’ll let the captain know I’ve discharged you, and that he can--”

“Don’t,” McCoy cuts him off gruffly. “I’ll take care of it.” Fuck, he owes Jim an apology. That being the case, he’d better go and see him, and not in his quarters. Someplace neutral. Like there _is_ such a thing aboard this ship.

“All right, I won’t say anything unless he asks. I will, however, have Doctor Dehner contact you.”

“A psych consult? The hell with that. I don’t need to see Liz.”

“Tell her, not me.”

“I’m _fine_.” And with that, he shoves back the blanket and pushes himself up onto his elbows, grimacing as he does. “I’m just fine. Done being coddled. Just let me up. Where the hell’s my uniform?”

M’Benga stands and gives him a long, somber look. “I’ll have Nurse Mathews bring it. I’ll have her bring you the pills as well.” He turns to leave, then pauses and looks back at McCoy. “Nobody in this sickbay would coddle you, Leonard. When you’ve had some proper rest and some food, I think you’ll realize that. You’ll also realize we haven’t been treating you any differently from any other member of this crew … even though we care about you just a little bit more.” He smiles briefly. Then he leaves.

* * * *

Alone in his quarters, there isn’t much he can do but try to find ways to pass the time until Jim gets off duty. He eats the soup that someone - probably Chapel or M’Benga - ordered up for him from the mess. After that, he takes a shower, letting the sonics wash away the smells of sickbay and the grimy feeling that comes with spending a day and a half in bed. It isn’t the same as the old-fashioned water shower, which Jim has in his quarters. It doesn’t feel anywhere near as good against his sore back. But it gets him clean.

Stepping from the shower stall, he glances at his reflection in the mirror. His hair is an unruly tangle, with cowlicks sticking out in all directions, and he needs a shave. Damn. He doesn’t feel like dealing with his hair, but if he’s going to leave his quarters later, he can’t look like something that crawled out of a cave.

So he tugs a comb through his hair, grimacing whenever it catches on a tangle. Jerking it free hurts his back, and by the time he has his hair lying the way he likes - smoothed down and parted neatly on the side – he can barely stand up straight. He knows he doesn’t have to take care of the stubble right now, but he stubbornly persists, curling over the sink, putting his weight on his bent elbows.

He’s almost shaking by the time he stumbles out of the head, and he eyes the little bottle of tetroxymorphone hungrily.

He leaves the pills untouched on his nightstand.

Sinking gingerly back against his pillows, he gives the computer his access code and then has it play Jim’s report from the Paraesa mission to him. It’s terse, which isn’t really Jim’s style. The kid has a way with words and knows it; his reports usually show some flair.

McCoy listens while Jim speaks tonelessly about their arrival on Paraesa, and the events leading up to the treaty signing. There hadn’t really been a lot to do. The Federation ambassadors had already done most of the work, but the Sef insisted on a show of strength before they signed anything. They wanted proof that their new allies were worth giving up their century-old blood feuds. They also wanted to show the Federation that although they were acquiescing to its demands, they were still the de facto leaders of Paraesa.

So Starfleet had sent its golden boy, Captain Kirk. Who had then selected McCoy, Spock, and Lieutenant Sanyal from Security to accompany him to the planet’s surface.

 _Why me?_ McCoy wonders as Jim talks about his initial meeting with the Sef leader, Dobrek. Spock and Sanyal make sense. Spock is Jim’s second in command, and displays the sort of stoicism that the Sef seem to prize so highly. Chandra Sanyal is a seasoned fighter and looks it.

But why him? He didn’t question Jim’s orders before - why would he? he goes where Jim goes, end of discussion - but now he can’t help it. For fuck’s sake, why _him_? Sure, he’s tall and broad and he looks good at Jim’s side. But no one would mistake him for a soldier. He has no qualities that would have impressed the Sef. He’s loud and emotional, and he has nothing but contempt for posturing and pissing contests, especially when lives are at stake. Jim should never have taken him down to that planet. What the hell was going through his mind when he made up the away team?

Jim concludes his report: “Finally, due to an unfortunate misunderstanding - and negligence on my part - Doctor McCoy suffered injuries at the hands of the Sef and, upon our return to the _Enterprise_ , was transferred immediately to sickbay. Doctor M’Benga will file a more complete report. As of this recording, Doctor McCoy’s condition is stable. He’s expected to make a full recovery and should return to duty within the next few days. This incident will not affect the situation on Paraesa. Kirk out.”

 _Negligence._ “You got that right, anyway, Captain,” McCoy sighs. As for misunderstanding…

He laughs, which causes his newly healed ribs to ache.

 _Oh, Jim-darlin’,_ he thinks. _There was no misunderstanding. I was debriefed, same as everyone else. I fucked up._

He stares at the bulkhead, tired again all of a sudden. “No special treatment,” he says quietly to the blank panels, while his fingers drum listlessly against the blanket. “That’s what you promised me when we left Earth. We don’t make up excuses for each other. That’s the only way this is gonna work.”

He has to get hold of Jim. Has to convince him that this is idiotic, that McCoy’s career isn’t worth putting his own at risk. Has to tell him that he’s sorry, so fucking sorry, and that maybe they need to rethink their boundaries.

Fuck.

There’s a burning pain behind his eyes now, but still he doesn’t reach for the bottle of pills. There’s a bottle of good bourbon in his sock drawer, but he doesn’t reach for that either.

He needs to think.

“Computer,” he says, “locate James T. Kirk.”

 _Captain Kirk is on the bridge._

“Computer, what the hell time is it?”

There are at least five clocks or watches in this room - for some reason, people seem to like giving them to him as presents - but he just wants an answer, fast and straightforward.

 _At the chime, shipboard time will be exactly 11:36._ About five seconds later, he hears the chime.

Great. Almost four and a half hours before Jim gets off duty. McCoy can’t wait that long. He’ll go out of his mind if he tries. Besides, Liz Dehner might try to get hold of him, and he doesn’t want to talk to her about Paraesa until he sorts things out with Jim.

She’s a good listener, after all, and who knows? Before the day is over, he might have more to cry about than getting beaten up by a bunch of backward, militaristic aliens.

Gritting his teeth and clenching his stomach muscles, he pushes himself up, and then he flop-stumble-climbs out of bed with so little grace, he might as well be drunk. Standing makes him dizzy, but he grips the edge of the nightstand with both hands, and after a moment, the wave passes. The pain in his upper back does not.

 _It’s okay, though_ , he tells himself. He kept his shit together on Paraesa. He sat there with his broken bones and lacerated organs. He can handle this.

He dresses slowly in a crisp, clean uniform, not the one Jim brought him earlier but a new one from his dresser. The pants are easy enough, but the contortions he has to go through in order to get his shirts over his head leave him gasping.

“I can do this,” he mutters as he grasps the hems of the shirts and yanks them down over his abdomen. “I’m not a fucking invalid.” He angrily jams his feet into his boots and stalks back into the head to make sure his hair is still in order.

Once he’s satisfied with his appearance, he asks the computer again for the time and Jim’s location.

 _Captain Kirk is on the bridge. At the chime, shipboard time will be exactly 11:58._

McCoy doesn’t wait for the chime. He leaves his quarters and heads up to the bridge, focusing on keeping his shoulders straight and his gait measured, telling himself that he’s just imagining the sidelong glances from officers and crew.

Spock is the first to glance up when he steps out of the turbolift, onto the bridge. For a moment, their eyes meet and Spock raises his eyebrows slightly. “Doctor,” he begins.

Anger flashes through McCoy. He doesn’t want Spock’s concern, or his smug opinions about McCoy’s emotional outburst on Paraesa.

“Bones,” says Jim, getting up from his seat. The soft lips are folded, the high forehead smooth, but McCoy sees the questions flickering in those blue eyes: _What are you doing here? What do you want from me?_

“Captain, I’d like a word,” McCoy says stiffly, aware not just of Jim and Spock’s gaze, but of everyone else on the bridge. Uhura, Sulu, Chekov, and Yeoman Rand - they didn’t witness his spectacular fuckup, but they must know something’s wrong. Even if he isn’t shaking - and he’s trying so hard to hold himself together that he honestly doesn’t know - the tension between him and Jim must be palpable.

“All right,” Jim says. “In my ready room?”

McCoy shakes his head. The captain’s ready room is accessible from the bridge. He wants to go some place more private. “Briefing Room 2, if you don’t mind.”

Jim purses his lips momentarily, then nods. “Mister Spock, you have the conn,” he says as he gestures for McCoy to precede him off the bridge.

They take the turbolift down, standing on opposite sides of the small space, avoiding each other’s eyes. When they arrive at Deck 3 and the door slides open, Jim once again gestures expansively with one arm, and McCoy steps out first.

They don’t say a word to each other until they’re in the briefing room and the door is closed behind them. Then Jim sighs, drops into a chair, and looks up at him. His lips are still set in that neutral line, but his eyebrows are pinched together over the bridge of his nose. He looks young and uncertain, not an expression McCoy ever likes to see on Jim Kirk’s face.

“Sit down, Bones,” Jim says.

McCoy, who’s standing with his hands clasped behind him and his feet shoulder-width apart, shakes his head.

“We’re not on the bridge anymore,” Jim points out. “There’s no need for this. You’re not even supposed to be up and about. Sit down. Relax.”

McCoy bristles. “You really don’t take me seriously, do you?”

The blue eyes widen and Jim’s face, already pale, loses color. “All right,” he says after a moment. “Talk to me. What are we doing here? And what the hell makes you think I don’t take you seriously?”

“I read the mission report. With all due respect, Captain, that was bullshit.”

“I see,” Jim says. “All of it?”

“No, just the end. The part about the misunderstanding and your negligence.”

“I see,” Jim says again. His hands rest in his lap. He glances down at them briefly, then back up at McCoy. Under the curl of his lashes, his eyes are startlingly bright, like sunlight on a wave. They reveal nothing of what’s going on in Jim’s head now, and for a moment uncertainty chokes McCoy.

“Go on,” says Jim.

“Captain…” McCoy sucks in a breath. His muscles feel like they’re trying to twist themselves into knots under his skin. Sweat gathers in his armpits and behind his knees.

Impatiently Jim says, “I reported what I observed. For what it’s worth, Spock agrees with my version of events. Are you telling me I’m wrong?”

“Yes, goddamnit!” The words tear themselves from McCoy’s throat. He slams his hands down on the table between them. Jim actually winces.

“Are you out of your mind?” McCoy continues, even though _God,_ he needs to lie down; his muscles are writhing. “You think Starfleet won’t find out you’re trying to cover for me? They’re not stupid. They’ll figure it out. What do you think will happen when they do? It isn’t worth it, Jim. There was no misunderstanding. I _fucked up._ I jeopardized the mission. I deserve to take the fall. I deserve to be punished.”

“You don’t think you’ve been punished enough?” Jim’s voice is soft, but it brings McCoy up short. He stands there, leaning against the table with his mouth open. Jim continues calmly, “What do you want me to do? Keelhaul you?”

“I want you to tell the truth,” McCoy says gruffly.

“I did. I told the truth as I saw it.”

“Well, you’re an idiot.” Belatedly he remembers that he came here to _apologize_ to Jim.

“Who isn’t taking who seriously here?”

McCoy looks down at his fingertips. “Sorry. But this is what I mean. This is what I’m like. This is who I _am_. You knew that when you assigned me to the away team. You _knew_.” His voice is breaking. He can _feel_ Jim’s intense gaze, even though he can’t bring himself to glance up. “How could you send me down there, Jim? How could you do that?”

He hears Jim push his chair back and rise, hears his footsteps. His heart starts to hammer in panic, but Jim says gently, “I’m not going to touch you. It’s okay. Sit down, Bones. _Please._ ”

McCoy’s arms tremble and sweat rolls down his sides, but he stays standing.

“Fine. If you collapse, though, I swear I’m going to have Scotty beam us right to sickbay. I know how much you love intra-ship beaming.”

“Fuck you.”

“If you want to curse at me, go ahead. Say whatever you want. I’m listening.”

“I just want an answer,” McCoy grates. “A real answer. Why me?”

“I like taking you places.”

“Damn it, Jim, you know what I mean! The Sef wanted a show of strength. That’s why Starfleet sent you. That’s why you picked Spock and Sanyal. But why _me_? I’m not a soldier.”

“No,” Jim says mildly, “you certainly aren’t.” He pauses and McCoy wishes he could see his face right now, but it’s taking all of his concentration not to fall forward. At length, Jim continues in a tone that’s firm but somehow not hard, “Doesn’t mean you’re not strong, though. Bones, you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever _met_. Do you need me to prove it to you? Because I can.”

“Do I have to move?”

“A little bit.”

“Fuck it.”

“Do you believe me?”

McCoy grunts.

Jim clearly interprets that as a negative, because he leans a little closer, laying his hand against the table, his fingertips barely an inch from McCoy’s. McCoy stares at the space between them and feels Jim’s warm breath stir his bangs.

“We’re all strong in different ways,” Jim says, and his voice seems to roll through McCoy. “Everyone here. You, for example, somehow find compassion and humanity everywhere. I honestly don’t know how you do it sometimes, but I count on it. I draw on it. That’s why I brought you with me - to Paraesa and everywhere else. You fix people when they’re broken. You fix _me_.” He falters momentarily. “And - as I pointed out the first time we met - Starfleet operates in space. Do you know how few layers there are between you and utter nothingness right now? Do you know how far away we are from even the nearest hydrogen atom?”

“Jesus, Jim!” He squeezes his eyes shut and wills himself not to think about it.

“I know,” Jim says flatly. “But here you are. That takes guts.”

“And a lot of therapy,” McCoy reminds him.

“That takes guts too. You could be planetside right now. Sipping your mint juleps under a yellow sun. And yet, you’re here.”

“Yeah, well. There were perks.”

“Yeah?”

McCoy opens his eyes a crack and cocks his head to glare up at Jim. “Not that I can think of one right now. And this still doesn’t explain your bullshit mission report.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jim sighs and looks away. “I stand by the report. I wish like hell you hadn’t said anything, but I’m not changing it. For one thing, I see the situation differently. As I said, Spock concurs with--”

“Oh, well, if _Spock_ concurs…”

“Bones,” Jim cuts him off sharply, “shut up. Look, the Sef asked for a show of strength from Starfleet and I think they wanted to give one in return. Dobrek, anyway, wanted to show us that it’s still his planet. They were looking for a target and you … drew attention to yourself. If it hadn’t been you, it might have been Spock or Sanyal. Dobrek would have found an excuse. That was the misunderstanding. I didn’t realize he was playing with me until it was too late.”

“I shouldn’t’ve said anything.”

“No,” Jim says, “you shouldn’t have. Even though you asked an important question. When the Sef re-open the hospitals, will the Kalath and the Utavi have access to the same level of care? It’s a good question, Bones, and I don’t know the answer. Dobrek did, but I have a feeling he didn’t want to share it.”

“Do you think the Sef’ll break the treaty?”

“I don’t know. I think they might try - until the garrison from Starfleet shows up and they realize we’re serious.”

“Do you think,” McCoy says slowly, “if I hadn’t said anything, that they’d--”

“I don’t know,” says Jim, shrugging his shoulders and looking startlingly young again. “It’s done. It happened and it’s done. I’m not changing my report and I’m not going to reprimand you. You’ve been punished enough, and not in any way that I would ever have wanted. So, come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Just tell me one thing,” says McCoy. “If it’d been someone else, would you’ve treated them the same way?”

Jim gives him an odd look. When he replies, his tone is bland. “Well, I wouldn’t take Spock or Sanyal back to my quarters afterward, or tuck them into my bed, but…”

“Is that your plan?”

“That’s my plan,” says Jim. “Come on.” Then, quietly-- “Are you in a lot of pain?”

McCoy hesitates.

“Bones,” Jim says warningly and then, God _damn_ him, he arches one eyebrow.

“Yes,” McCoy groans.

“Do you need me to--”

“No. I can do it.”

And he does, somehow. It takes them longer than usual to reach Jim’s quarters, and McCoy is shaking like a leaf by the time they do, but he gets there without having to lean on Jim or pause to catch his breath too many times. Once they’re inside, Jim pulls back the covers on his bed and McCoy toes off his boots. Then his exhausted body seems to fold in on itself and the next thing he knows, he’s blinking at the ceiling while Jim tucks the top sheet and blanket around his shoulders, taking care not to touch him.

“I need to leave for a little while,” Jim says. “There are some things I was working on, and I promised Chekov I’d go over some coordinates with him. Before I go back to work, is there anything you need? Anything I can get you from your quarters or sickbay?”

“My PADD. And there’s a bottle of pills on my nightstand. Can’t miss it.”

“Okay. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He starts to turn.

“Jim?”

“Yeah, Bones?”

McCoy struggles. There’s something on the tip of his tongue, but he’s so tired, and the air seems to pulse around him.

“I’ll be right back,” Jim says. Then he’s gone.

* * * *

He comes back a short while later with McCoy’s PADD and the bottle of tetroxymorphone, as well as his discarded off-duty uniform, his pajamas, toothbrush, communicator, and a chicken sandwich.

“So this is a sleepover?” McCoy asks as Jim sets everything on his desk, then goes into the head.

“It’s whatever you need it to be,” Jim says, returning with a cup of water, which he places next to the pills.

Then he’s gone again, and McCoy frowns because something still nags at him, something he can’t quite put into words.

It’ll come, he figures. In the meantime, he has to find some way to make it through the afternoon.

He shakes three pills into his palm and swallows them down with a gulp of water. Then he eats the sandwich even though he isn’t hungry. While he’s eating, he picks up his communicator and notices that he has a message from Liz Dehner. She wants to know how he’s doing, and tells him to contact her if he needs to talk.

His thumb hovers over the reply button. A friendly voice would be welcome right now, he thinks. After about a minute, however, he snaps the communicator shut and sets it aside. He wouldn’t mind hearing a friendly voice, but he doesn’t feel like talking.

Still in his uniform, he gets back under the covers and pulls them up to his shoulder. “Computer, lights off. No - make that five percent.” He doesn’t want Jim coming back to a completely dark room. In the dimness, he curls onto his side, pushing an arm under the pillows, making himself as comfortable as he can while he waits for the tetroxymorphone to kick in.

What is it he was trying to remember before? Something he needs to tell Jim, maybe, or ask him. It’s hazy.

The pillow smells like Jim. As McCoy rubs his cheek against it, he wishes that it were Jim. Pretending will have to do for now. He closes his eyes and imagines a heartbeat beneath his cheek, strong fingers in his hair. It isn’t the same, but it’s soothing anyway, and, after a time, it lulls him to sleep.

* * * *

In his dream, he relives it. Two of the Sef yank back his chair and haul him to his feet. Holding his arms, they bend him over the back of his chair while a third Sef pushes his shirt up to his armpits.

Jim is yelling. “What are you doing? Let him go! That’s my Chief Medical Officer. He had every right to ask that question. You have no authority--”

“You’re the one without authority, Captain Kirk,” Dobrek, the Sef leader says in a flat tone. “But I’ll teach you how to deal with insubordination.” He nods to his men, and the beating begins.

The first blow lands with a sting across his back, and he arches instinctively, more in shock than in pain. He grits his teeth. Jim will get him out of this, he thinks.

Jim tries. He demands McCoy’s release; he denounces corporal punishment as barbaric; he offers himself instead of McCoy; he warns Dobrek that there will be serious repercussions--

“Captain,” Dobrek interjects, “we both know you want this peace treaty more than I do. Pay attention.”

Either the Sef know very little about human anatomy, or they really are a bunch of sadistic bastards. They seem to know to avoid his spine, but they show little regard for his kidneys and other vulnerable organs. The blows fall quickly, denying him even a few seconds’ respite in between, and by now McCoy is writhing, trying to twist away from his captors, but they hold him in place, their long fingers like vises around his forearms. His face is hot with humiliation, his gut ice-cold. At first, he swore vehemently, cursing the Sef, their planet, their whole goddamn star system. Now he has no control over the words that leave his mouth, if they’re even words at all.

Why hasn’t Jim thought of something yet?

He feels his ribs crack, and he chokes on a sob.

“Please,” says Jim, his voice soft but resonant in the small chamber. “Please let him go.”

Dobrek nods again and the blows stop. With a ragged gasp, McCoy sags between his captors. Now he’s aware of more than pain and Jim. He can hear Spock’s even breaths. He can see the tension in Lieutenant Sanyal’s rigid jaw. The security officer looks poised to spring, and for all their sakes, McCoy wills her to ignore her years of training and stay the hell where she is.

McCoy can feel the slivers of broken bone scrape his insides, but he clings to his shredded dignity, and clamps his jaws shut against another raw, pitiful sound.

Dobrek says to Jim, “See, Captain? The price of insubordination. I’m teaching you a valuable lesson. Now, if you want these negotiations to continue, show me what you’ve learned.”

McCoy looks at Jim in confusion.

Jim doesn’t look at him, but at Dobrek, who has slid a small baton from his belt loop and is holding it out to him.

“Reclaim your authority, Captain,” the Sef leader says. “Or these negotiations end here and now.”

Still McCoy doesn’t understand. Not until, with a sickened, gutted look, Jim rises and takes the baton from Dobrek’s hand.

* * * *

He wakes with a start, and for a moment he can’t remember where he is. It’s dark and there’s something pressing down on him. In a panic, he flails with his arms and legs and the thing on top of him falls away and he realizes it was just the blanket and top sheet. That’s all. Not armed guards with sticks. He’s safe aboard the _Enterprise_. He’s in Jim’s bed.

Now that he knows where he is, he starts to become aware of other things: the gold shirt draped over the back of Jim’s desk chair, the hiss and spatter of running water. How far into beta shift did he manage to sleep?

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Jim is here and the thing that McCoy needs to tell him is suddenly roaring in his ears. Cautiously, though the pain in his back has dulled considerably, he climbs out of bed and walks over to the head, shedding his clothes along the way. He’s naked by the time he opens the shower door, and his appearance clearly startles Jim because he jerks his head up and splutters, “Bones!”

He must have just finished rinsing his hair; flecks of shampoo cling to his neck and shoulders, and the shell of one ear. Splotches of pink bloom across the pale skin of his chest and upper arms, and his dark lashes clump together under his heavy brows like the points of star. Jim is strength and vulnerability, safety and danger all in one, and McCoy needs all of those things right now, so he starts to raise a hand, but Jim shies away and casts his gaze downward.

“Almost done,” he mutters. “Be outta your way in a sec.”

“Jim.” McCoy’s hand remains half-raised. His fingers curl and uncurl. “Stay.”

“It’s gonna be crowded, you know.”

“I know.” He brushes the fleck of shampoo from Jim’s ear. It’s the first time they’ve touched since McCoy collapsed on the transporter pad, and it sends a shock wave through him, but he doesn’t drop his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says, moving closer so the water from the showerhead hits him and he can feel the tension in Jim’s body. “I’m sorry I questioned your judgment before. I’m sorry I put you in that position to begin with. Sorry I disappointed you on Paraesa.”

“Bones…” Jim seems to crumple. He closes his eyes and slumps against the wall of the shower. His lashes fan his cheeks and now the droplets clinging to the tips look like tears. “I thought you were dying. I didn’t know how badly hurt you were until we beamed back to the _Enterprise_. Then you just collapsed and I thought you were going to die right there in my arms. I didn’t give a flying fuck about the treaty. Fuck the Sef, fuck the Kalath, fuck the Utavi. Fuck Starfleet. You were coughing up blood and I just…” He smacks the heel of his palm against the wall. “Fuck!”

For once, McCoy can’t think of damn thing to say. His hands go to Jim’s cheeks, but Jim is somewhere deep inside his own head right now, and he doesn’t react to the touch, doesn’t open his eyes to meet McCoy’s probing gaze.

“I _hit_ you.” His voice is thin and raw - a child’s voice. “I would _never_ \-- But I couldn’t think of any other way to save the treaty. I didn’t know how hurt you were. I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Bones. I failed. I _lost_.”

His tone has taken on a desperate edge, and it touches something deep in McCoy’s core. This isn’t just Jim, his captain, his friend. This is a soul in pain, and McCoy can’t keep his mouth shut.

“Damn it, Jim, you didn’t lose anything. Do you even hear me? Listen!” McCoy cups his face and pushes his thumbs against his cheekbones, trying to get Jim to open his damn eyes and look at him. “You saved the treaty. You didn’t lose me. I’m fine. I’m right here. Unlike the Sef, you knew where to hit me, and you didn’t even hit me that hard. By the time you got to me, the damage was already done. You didn’t make it worse. I’m a doctor - trust me. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“I should’ve been able to come up with something,” Jim babbles. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Every fucking spare minute. What I _should’ve_ done. I still don’t know. I _don’t know._ The way you looked at me right before you collapsed. You fix me. All the time. You always fix me. And I failed you.”

“And you don’t get a do-over. There’s no cheat code you can trick someone into downloading.” Bringing up the _Kobayashi Maru_ might not be the kindest thing he can do right now, but it works. Jim’s eyes flutter open. Before he can get a word in, however, McCoy continues firmly, “It’s over. You didn’t fail anyone. Failure would’ve been the Sef backing out, and the slaughter of the Kalath and Utavi resuming. Paraesa is out of our hands now. Whatever Dobrek thinks he accomplished, the garrison Starfleet is sending to enforce the treaty will put him in his place. And I’m here. I’m right here, kid. And if you can forgive me, I can forgive you.”

Even as he says the words, McCoy realizes that that isn’t the problem. Tilting Jim’s head back, holding his gaze, he says, “If I can forgive myself, you can forgive yourself.”

That earns him a brittle smile. “Can you? Forgive yourself? Never mind,” he says so quickly that McCoy is sure he knows the answer and doesn’t want to hear it. Drawing a shaky breath, he says again, “Never mind.”

They stand there under the water for a few moments. The space between them is no greater than McCoy’s bent arms, but it feels vast.

“Touch me,” McCoy says abruptly.

The dark lashes twitch. Even over the hiss and sputter of the shower, Jim can probably feel McCoy’s stammering heartbeat. “You sure?”

“I’m sure. I need you to put your hands on me right now.”

The smile that breaks over Jim’s face is wounded and open and McCoy leans in to kiss it, shaping his lips to the curve of Jim’s. He feels hands on his hips, and a shiver rushes through him but he doesn’t flinch away. Jim kisses him back, slowly at first, then with greater assurance as McCoy moans hungrily into his mouth. Jim’s hands stroke their way up his sides, skittering over his still-tender ribs. They hesitate when they reach his shoulders, so McCoy breaks the kiss, dropping his lips to the pulse point below Jim’s ear, giving his hands no place else to go.

Jim rests his cheek against McCoy’s hair, puts his arms around him, and holds him close. There’s pain, but it isn’t bad. The tetroxymorphone is working. And as the hot water pelts his skin and Jim’s fingers caress him gently, the line between pain and pleasure begins to blur.

“Just don’t do that to me ever again,” Jim whispers.

“Don’t do what? Disobey orders?”

“Don’t get hurt. You’re not allowed. Ever.”

Jim’s tone is teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of seriousness. McCoy nuzzles him and strokes his hair, but he doesn’t say anything in response.

There’s nothing he _can_ say. Any promise he might make would be hollow, and Jim doesn’t deserve that. All they can do right now is hold each other and draw strength from the knowledge that they’ll heal, and that they’ve lost nothing.

4/7/2011


End file.
